Sleeping Places

I slept with Hieronymus while he dreamt up hell.

It’s not the same on panel, oh no: wood can’t hold color like that,

or the tongue in my ear that moved so slow, sounded like fangs.

But now I know how to keep quiet, and I still keep quiet.

I used to live in a house of sticks, but don’t worry, because this time

I built it with diorite and planted snapdragons in the yard.

At night I lock the doors and post my love letters in the window.

He only lit his cigarettes with matches--makes it taste better, he said,

and once while he smoked in bed, he dropped the box, and

I still find them sometimes, tangled in the sheets.  They scratch

my thighs and try for fire, but my bed is made of water.

I don’t think he realized that I dream too, and once I dreamt

I awoke at low tide holding a man-o-war like a bag of sand.

And over a sunless day, it slipped through my fingers, slithered away.

© Katherine Freeman, 2013

"Hell," by Hieronymus Bosch, circa 1490-1515
Oil on panel
Venice, Doge's Palace
Image from Wikimedia Commons

Lucretia ...after Rembrandt van Rijn’s painting

I.

I will tell you because

only you will understand:

Sextus had me first.

with me, he was silent;

he offered no threat,

did not fool me--

I just gave in.

gave in.

what do you call it, Lucretia?

surrender?

submission?

choice?

now we both know: there is no choice.

II.

there is a sense of self-betrayal,

a gasp in your chest

when you look at my bed;

the scent on your dress, always,

a handful of spit and sweat,

the tragic film of memory.

there is the fight to not remember

when you were younger,

when you fell asleep in the arms of God,

and he loved you more

than you will e v e r know again.

III.

here is how you work, Lucretia:

you lie

and you take it.

(but I took it, then I lied.)

like a good wife, you told your husband,

and your husband consoled you:

you did not sin because your body did not sin.

your body did not sin because your mind did not sin.

and your mind did not sin because

you did not feel pleasure.

(then pleasure must be sin)

IV.

let me tell you a secret:

some nights I dream about Sextus,

and I think I would like to love him.

I think I would like for him to love me.

here is another secret:

I wish he had kissed me.

did he kiss you, Lucretia?

I would rot with jealousy.

V.

what does sin feel like to you, Lucretia?

does it feel like pleasure?

or does it feel like guilt?

both and also something in between:

a void with anxiety

panging from within.

we’re supposed to be scared 

of these things, Lucretia:

the strong arms with the gentle hands

the breath in our ears on the verge of sleep

but to find solace,

we must find comfort.

VI.

comfort is the ghost I hold at night,

wanting, wishing it would hold me back.

fear is waking in damp sheets,

forgetting where I came from,

remembering where I am.

VII.

guilt was two weapons on the table before you:

silence and the knife

I admire you for choosing the latter, Lucretia,

because I chose the sharper,

though we both chose tools of strife.

now everything I have felt each night

you feel in this single moment

while I still have many nights left to go--

so dig that knife in hard, Lucretia

take it all in one blow

© Katherine Freeman, 2012

Rembrandt's Lucretia, 1666
Photo from Wikimedia Commons
Painting in the Minneapolis Institute of Arts